


An Honest Kill

by Gabri



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabri/pseuds/Gabri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why do you trust me?" Peter isn't sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Honest Kill

Peter isn’t stupid. He knows what Wade is.

He sees the brighter side sometimes, the times when Wade is impulsive and shameless and Peter can’t help but laugh. When there’s a peek of something genuine and human there, something more than the attention-seeking greed, or the insecurity that bleeds through the mask like an ugly, open wound.

But then there’s the child, the sadist and the deviant, the part that enjoys causing pain, leaving Peter scrubbing someone else’s blood out of the carpet and wishing he could step away. He runs his smaller fingers down the heavy muscles of Deadpool’s shoulders and tries to siphon the tension and the hate and the urgency out of them. He tries not to care when Deadpool mocks the attempt. Because it’s happened before. Wade doesn’t change. He probably never will.

Which means Peter can give up, he can leave, and nobody can say he didn’t try. He thinks, sometimes, maybe he _has_ given up. Maybe he’s the selfish one, because he’s come to hope for those times when they can laugh, when Wade has his legs kicked out and an arm around his shoulder and nothing on earth can make him shut up. Something makes him stay, makes him agonize over what to do with Wade, work through the kinks and try to grow something out of that darkness.

It isn’t until later that he even realizes Wade has been questioning whatever it is that’s grown between them as well. It’s one of those nights, when Peter finds him cross-legged in front of a blank television, humming something upbeat and completely soaked in blood, and he walks over and tries to stoop to his level, read his face better. He knows better than anyone that Wade isn’t all there, but padding around nervously because he doesn’t know what to expect isn’t going to help. Besides, Peter Parker isn’t just anyone, he can handle danger.

He can handle Wade.

The red and black mask tilts up to him, and Peter senses something darker, heavier than before. “It’s okay.” he says, and a warning travels through his bloodied body, a flash of surging anger. Peter feels his senses shout out steadies his ground, except Deadpool grabs him by the throat and just like that he’s down against the floor.

It’s not an assault, really - the fingers don’t squeeze, and Peter gasps a breath easily. But the look on Deadpool’s face - that’s something unnerving. It’s quiet, focused. Peter thinks of Wade’s missions, and he finds himself tilting his head back cautiously, baring his throat to Wade’s fingers, staring up at the other man intently. He can feel the heavy rise and fall of his own chest, his fingers splaying flat against the carpet. Wade straddles him easily, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to earn a little breath.

It feels…different. The position, the atmosphere, and most of all, the silence. Usually getting Wade to shut up is a chore, but now it’s so quiet that he can swear both their heartbeats are audible. But Peter forces himself to calm, to breathe even, keep his eyes fixed, as if he’s pacifying some kind of pack animal. He might as well be, because he doesn’t think Wade will hurt him. If he really wanted to, he’s sure, he would have done something more by now.

Only then the merc presses down, and Peter gives another gasp - a different one, because it doesn’t take a genius to know that that’s Wade’s dick grinding into his thigh, but before he can think of something to say those rough, gloved fingers tighten on his neck, pushing his head back a little. His head swims, despite the fact that he doesn’t have to fight for air yet, but the sudden dominance that radiates off the other man is almost palpable, and immediately. alarm bells are going off in his head. It’s all he can do not to jump right into a panic.

Instead he lifts a hand to Wade’s arm, curls his fingers around it, a warning and a reminder, readying himself to turn the tables. He doesn’t want to fight, not when Wade’s like this, _especially_ not when he’s still literally dripping blood from his kill, but if he has to he will.

Wade twitches slightly at the touch. He bends down, bringing the mask so close to Peter’s face that he can smell the copper stench of blood there, and finally he speaks in a low growl of a whisper. “Why do you trust me?”

_That’s an excellent question_ , Peter wants to say, but the hand on his throat tightens and Wade chooses that moment to work his hips against Peter’s thigh in a way that makes his heart leap and no, okay, no, that’s enough-

Peter forces a leg up in between their bodies and kicks him hard. Super strength doesn’t fade with the costume, and so Deadpool’s blood-slick form slides an impressive distance before he’s up again, the two meeting halfway, twisting in a grapple until Peter hears the sharp _shing!_ of a knife. Long, sharpened steel slides up under Peter’s jaw and rests there. He’s distantly surprised by the warmth of it, the pressure. Wade gives a odd little laugh and leans in.

“What’s wrong, baby boy, afraid of a little dry humping?”

“What the hell is wrong with you!” Peter hisses. His voice comes out higher than intended. “I was trying to help-“

“You never answered my question.” the blade presses a shade closer. Peter can feel his skin isn’t about to break, but the threat is obvious, and the careless way Wade is carrying it out somehow makes it all the worse. There’s a twist in his stomach, something he can’t identify. His throat still has the feel of phantom gloves on it.

“I thought we were friends.” he says. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t even care if it’s true or if it’s what Deadpool wants to hear. He just wants the sword to disappear, the bright burn of shame and the disgust he feels for having involved Deadpool so thoroughly in his life at all.

Wade doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then his opposite hand ghosts up and tucks a lock of hair behind Peter’s ear.

“You’re so _good_.” he says. “You’re such a _hero._ Look at me.” The hand catches slightly, tugs a few strands of hair. “Fucking _LOOK_ at me! Who are we kidding? You think you’re gonna stay all safe and pretty and pure hanging around with me? You think one way or another, I’m not gonna rip out your heart and feed it to you? You think you can love me?” his voice rises, and Peter hisses as he feels the blade break skin, just enough for a drop or two to slide down his throat.

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter says, and he doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but he feels sick, feels dizzy, and the pain is distant compared to the way Wade is pressing him against the wall, dirtying his clothes with blood, rubbing against him shamelessly. The knife falters and a second after it’s gone, Wade’s hands steady on his head and he’s being shoved down to his knees. There’s rustling in front of him, the sounds of a belt being yanked away, pants shoved down, then broad fingers slide around the nape of his neck and grab fistfuls of his hair. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and feels the damp head of a cock rub across his lips, his cheek.

A kind of fire burns high in his chest, so hot it scorches smoke up through his body, his nose and eyes. He can feel the color in his cheeks, Wade’s heavy breathing floating above him. It occurs to him, as he’s opening his mouth and sucking the tip of Wade’s cock against his tongue, that his hands are free, even his legs alone would be enough to bring him down, and the little nick on his neck is barely even an injury. He could get back up, he could fight, so why the hell isn’t he?

_Why isn’t he?_

From what seems like miles away, Wade moans lowly, trying to stuff himself further into Peter’s mouth. His pace is too slow, and when Peter tries to stay steady with it, the hands in his hair only shove him insistently forward, brutal and impatient. His face is burning, a wave of humiliation and desperateness and shame washing over him as Wade fucks his face, but he can’t stop trying, can’t stop humming quiet moans around his dick, flicking his tongue around the tip, digging his nails into Wade’s thighs. He can’t think, can’t process if he’s trying to make Wade feel good, or earn some measure of control over him, or just get him off so this can all be over with and they can go back to baring teeth.

Only he’s sure this thing, whatever is it, runs deeper than that. His cheat aches, actually burns, like his heart is singed around the edges. He wants to remove himself from this person, but instead he’s blowing him like it’s the only thing that matters, like there wasn’t a knife on his neck a minute ago, like this is some kind of passionate affair and not the boiling point of what is easily the most fucked up relationship he’s ever had with another person.

Friendship, relationship, attempt at fixing a ruined brain. Peter wants to melt into the floor, but he can’t stop. Even if he wanted to, he can’t.

Wade’s hands don’t leave his hair, holding him firmly in place when he comes, and Peter finds himself swallowing as much as he can so he can breathe. There’s a brief, almost loving caress along his cheek.

Then he can hear the sound of his boots thumping away. Leaving. And it’s over, just like that, it’s over. He’s still kneeling on the carpet, hard and confused and alone. He can still taste the bitterness of Wade in his mouth. He can still hear every word in perfect clarity.

They say love is a cruel thing, because you don’t get a choice in it.

Only Peter doesn’t love Wade. He doesn’t.


End file.
